A Candle for the Past
by Lyssie212
Summary: He bowed his head once more, before turning and exiting the room, shutting the door softly behind him. The lone candle he had lit flickered silently, the only reminder of a boy who once was…and the life of a boy who could no longer be. *Disneyverse*


**WARNING. PETER ANGST. Disneyverse.** **x3**

**Enjoy! :D**

**Rating: K**

**Disclaimer: I never have, do not currently, and never will own Peter Pan. He belongs to J.M. Barrie and Disney.  
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><p><strong>Title: A Candle for the Past<strong>  
><strong>Written: 37/12**

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><p>It was a windy night in March. The air was chilled, and a light sprinkle had begun only moments ago in the town.<p>

There was a particular street in this town that contained a small church that had been around for almost 100 years. A few office lights still blazed through the windows into the dark atmosphere as the late-night workers began to pack up their things to head home. But the lights did not touch a boy who was hiding in a small cluster of bushes, waiting for the final person to leave and lock up for the night. He shivered as a gust of wind whispered through his hiding place, chilling the sheen of water he had been covered with from the drizzle. His teeth began to chatter, but he did not move from his place, save to clutch his old and worn cap tighter to his chest, a final reminder of who he was.

Or who he used to be.

At long last, the last of the lights shut off in the building, and the administrator exited the doors. She turned and pulled a large key from her purse, turned the lock with a scraping and a dull thud which was only heard by her and the boy -who had excellent hearing- before striding quickly towards her car, in a vain attempt to limit how drenched she would become from the rain.

The boy waited for what seemed like an eternity after she left, before leaving his place and jogging towards the doors so stealthily, you could barely hear his footsteps on the pavement. Once he reached the doors, he pulled out two metal clips he had swiped from his 'mother,' something she had called…bobby pins? He didn't know what they were meant for, or why they had such an odd name. He just knew that they were useful in picking locks. He had practiced plenty at home on that closet his so-called parents had forbidden him to enter. _Stupid grown-ups and their stupid rules,_ he thought as he twisted and prodded the lock with the pins. _What fun is life if you lock things away, never to be seen again? How can you find a treasure you can never reach?_

After a few more tedious moments, the lock shifted and he pushed the door open gently, the gate creaking loudly as it moved, and the black void that stretched out in front of him seemed to ominously invite him to explore the unknown. He hesitated, but his curiosity and the purpose for which he had came won over, and he stepped inside.

He walked forward slowly, his hands out a little ways in front of him to prevent him from running into something, water dripping from his form, the sound echoing off the walls. However, his eyes quickly adjusted to the pitch black and he continued on his way just a little bit faster.

He knew where he was going in the great building of course. She had brought him here before, and he had only come because it pleased her when he did. She had done so much for him after all, why would it hurt to do something for her? _Of course, there is one thing she's done that I can never forgive her for,_ he thought angrily, but he quickly brushed aside the thoughts as his hands hit another set of doors. He groped blindly for the handle, and with a careful tug, it opened with a small moan, and a gush of air escaped to rustle his red-brown hair softly.

He paused, before walking slowly forwards, his hands in front of him once again to find a pew. Once he did, he sat down with a sigh, and then reached down to pull out the kneeler. He knelt on the soft cushion and rested his arms on the back of the bench in front of him, as he had seen her do when they came. He had asked her why, and she had simply said that it was polite, but also that it was a rule. _Rules, rules, rules. That's all I've ever heard since-_ his brow furrowed and he shook his head, ridding the thought from his mind. _Forget about it,_ he scolded himself. _There's nothing more you can do. What's done is done._ But no matter how hard he tried to keep the memory away, it continued to flood his mind, and his throat began to burn from the challenge of keeping back his tears.

After a few moments, once thoughts and memories of what once was were buried deep back into the recesses of his subconscious, he took a deep, shaky breath, and sat back onto the hard, stiff bench. He stuffed his hand into his pocket and carefully pulled out a small box with a strange texture on either side. He slid it open and pulled out one of the sticks with the red tip, rolling it around in his fingers. He glanced up where he knew the small decorated table would be and stood up, clutching the small piece of wood tightly in his shaky palms and headed slowly towards the table.

When he stood less than a foot away from it, he placed his cap on the table, took the box in one hand and the stick in the other, and began to strike the wood against the odd texture of the box. It took a few tries, but at last the stick flared, casting a bright light throughout the small room, causing the boy to blink rapidly and squint at the sudden brightness that was casting frightening shadows across the floor. Once his eyes adjusted, he held the match up a bit to observe the scene before him.

A small set-up had been placed on the table, with rows of candles -some long burnt out, and some brand new- sitting patiently and silently for a specific purpose, one she had told him when her grandfather died from a sudden heart attack.

_'What are these candles for?' _he had asked her on one of their visits to this place.

'_When someone dies, you say a prayer and light a candle for them,' _she had said, her voice wavering at all the memories of her grandfather. _'That way, people know that there's someone who's gone or missing, and they can say a prayer. St. John, that's who the statue is, collects the prayers and then combines them in a way to help the person who's died reach the land beyond the horizon, where no one is sad, or sick, or upset…and where they live forever.'_

He had forgotten these words for a while, but once the…_incident_ had occurred, that memory had resurfaced, and he had been waiting, somewhat frightened, for the right moment to light one of the candles. For there was someone very close to him, who was lost and missing, and would never come back.

Tears once again sprung to his eyes, but he brushed them away angrily. He had already cried his tears, and he had promised he wouldn't cry of this again. At least, not where anyone could see him, in a place where he couldn't be found.

The tears flooded his vision and blurred the flame in front of him. A few dripped down his cheeks, and he let them come for a few moments for the last time, before he wiped them away once more and took a shuddering breath to calm himself.

Once his vision was clear, he found a candle that had yet to be lit, and reached forward with the match, igniting the small white candle. He blew out the match, and stared longingly at the fluttering flame. He closed his eyes tightly and said a small prayer -more of a message than a prayer- to whoever was listening up…well, wherever they were. When he was finished, he had calmed. He slowly opened his eyes to stare at the candle once more, before giving a deep sigh, releasing any and all thoughts and memories, adventures and stories that had haunted him at night for the past few weeks; experiences that had been so deeply ingrained in his memory. But with that shaky sigh, he released it all, never to be remembered again.

He bowed his head once more, before turning and exiting the chapel, shutting the door softly behind him.

The lone candle he had lit flickered silently but purposefully, shedding light on the worn and forgotten hat. These two sacred objects, who would not remain for long, were the only reminders of a boy who once was…

…and the life of a boy who could no longer be.

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><p><strong><span>BEFORE I GET ANY QUESTIONS ABOUT THE END: No, he does not die. Well, technically. CONTINUE READING FOR EXPLANATION, PLZ.<span>**

**Yup, I have another one. xD Even though it's only my second, I can't stop, there's just so many little plot bunnies I have for this fandom! ARGH! **

**Okay, so this one is a lot different from the other one. In this one, the 'incident' he thinks of, is the general idea that something happened between Peter and Wendy, and he can no longer return to Neverland. So simply, Peter Pan grew up just a little too much. D:**

**When he lights the candle and says the prayer, he's not praying for a family member or anything, it's like he's praying for his Pan 'counterpart,' or the childish part of him that he can't hold onto any longer, because he's been forced to grow up. That's what the line "...and the life of a boy who could no longer be" means. No more Pan. D'x Which is also why he leaves his hat behind. It's too painful to remember all the adventures, memories, and stories from when he was in Neverland.**

**Also, I just kind of made up what the candle ritual thing is, because I couldn't remember. :/ Like, I know you light a candle when someone dies...but I don't really know the 'story' of what happens then. And the little statue is supposed to be St. John, right? If I need to fix it, I will. But I'd like to leave the little explanation. It kind of sounds like Heaven is Neverland, am I right? x3**

**So yeah. No names or anything in here, but I thought it made it sound more interesting. Plus, I wasn't really in the mood to write a lot of dialogue. xD**

**And like I said earlier, I'm still working on TLWOH. It takes time. :1**

**Please review! I like feedback! :D  
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**Love you all!**

**~Lyssie212**


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